


Puzzle Pieces

by Ponderosa (ponderosa121)



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon Character of Color, Christmas Smut, First Time, Kissing, M/M, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:20:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28303713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121/pseuds/Ponderosa
Summary: It's Christmas Day and despite his mother's insistence that he indulge in the spirit of the holiday, Malcolm is perfectly content to stay inside, do a jigsaw puzzle, and ignore any carolers that come calling. Plans change when JT shows up on his doorstep with a present from Tally in hand.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/JT Tarmel, Malcolm Bright/JT Tarmel/Tally Tarmel
Comments: 23
Kudos: 52
Collections: Prodigal Son Holidays Fic Exchange





	Puzzle Pieces

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheCosmicMushroom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCosmicMushroom/gifts).



> Wishing a very Merry Christmas to everyone's favorite mushroom.

There are a limited number of ways that Malcolm would like to celebrate Christmas Eve. Spending the entire morning on the phone with his mother definitely didn’t make the list. After the second time he declines brunch, he puts the call on speaker, leaves the phone on the couch beside him, and goes back to working on the jigsaw puzzle that’s overtaken his coffee table. He’s gotten all the edges fit together, and has been slowly building it inwards. The only significant chunk finished reveals a copse of pine trees with snowy boughs, the start of a picturesque wintry scene.

As he sorts pieces into rough groups of similar colors, his mother goes on about the special Christmas Day charity event she’s attending tomorrow, how nice it is that Ainsley is getting some sun, and what a pity it is that Gil has to work on a holiday. All of which roughly translates to _“you still have time to decide to come with me, Malcolm,”_ and _“your_ sister _knows that travel restrictions don’t apply to people like us,”_ and _“isn’t there something you can do to convince Gil that staffing a desk just so other people can have the day off is silly?”_

Punctuating the satisfying cardboard snap of pieces fitting together with vague, one-word responses only works in his favor for so long. The jig is up when he realizes a beat too late that he’s mumbled an affirmative to a stretch of silence. Wincing, he puts down the latest promising piece and rescues the phone to bring it back to his ear, offering a hesitant, “Mother?” into the line.

“I just don’t want you to be all alone on Christmas, Malcolm,” she tells him, placing heavy emphasis on ‘alone’ as if it’s the worst thing in the world to have a bit of peace and quiet. Anticipating his retort, she adds a peevish, “Your silly little bird doesn’t count as having company, dear. I don’t understand why you dislike Christmas so much.”

It’s not that he’s some kind of Scrooge, but like so many things he’d cherished as a child, the holiday feels more ominous than joyous. Easing back into the couch cushions, Malcolm draws in a deep, measured breath and reminds himself that for a woman who had always loved the limelight, remaining ostracized from society is an ongoing trauma for her. Being alone for his mother is as bad as being unoccupied is for him.

“If it would make you feel better, I could go in and help Gil with some cold cases, but my therapist recommended that I stay away from any investigations on Christmas and stay home. I’m prepared to do nothing but read, put together a jigsaw puzzle, and attempt to cook a small chicken.” His eyes drift to his weapons cases and he idly rubs the scar that puckers his skin just beneath his ribs, the one that’s three hundred and sixty-three days old. “I’m kind of looking forward to the time off, for once.”

A sigh slips through the line. Silence follows. He gnaws on his lip, worrying that perhaps the only way to assure her he’ll be fine and get her to stop hounding him will be to actually accompany her to the theatre, or opera, or whatever event it is she’s sponsoring.

He catches the quiet clink of her wine glass being set down, and as she says, “Well, promise me you’ll open the door to any carolers for a bit of holiday cheer,” he closes his eyes and pictures the way she so often reaches up to toy with her necklace the moment her hand is unoccupied.

He promises even as he pulls a face at the thought. No one actually does that. Do they? A few nights this week an a capella group has set up in the small square across from his loft, the music drifting up in the late evening, but he’d place bets that none of the group would be caught dead knocking on any doors. “Have a good time at your event, Mother. If I don’t talk to you tomorrow, have a Merry Christmas.”

Partially appeased, she makes him promise one last time that he’ll at least attempt to experience a bit of Christmas tradition tomorrow before hanging up.

“If someone comes to my door wanting to sing songs at me, or deck the halls, or whatever, I promise to let them,” he tells her. With goodbyes exchanged, he sets down his phone, picks up that puzzle piece again, and promptly forgets about ninety-percent of the conversation.

That is, until roughly thirty-six hours later when the door buzzes.

To an outside observer it would look like Malcolm hasn’t moved, though he was up at his regular hour to take his meds, do his yoga, and run through his usual, failed attempts at meditating. By the time evening came around the puzzle on the coffee table had progressed to a solid seventy-five percent of the way to finished, the whole attempt at cooking a meal could be considered a moderate success, and he was just about to start the first of a stack of books he’d bought to get him through the weekend.

He slips the novel back on top of the stack and heads for the door. The a capella group is back, louder than ever, and the opening bars of _Winter Wonderland_ drift up from the street. The core group isn’t bad, but they’ve clearly gained additional carolers who can’t quite hold the tune.

He sighs as he thumbs the button on the intercom. Of course Jessica Whitly would make the situation manifest at any cost. “Whatever my mother paid you to come to my door and sing Christmas songs, I’ll double it if you just go back across the street and leave me alone.”

“Your loss, Bright, I’m a helluva singer.”

Malcolm’s pulse leaps wildly and he chokes out a startled, “JT?”

“If you’re busy I can go, but my Spidey sense tells me you aren’t.”

“I, um—” Malcolm glances at his phone plugged in at the breakfast bar. The sound is on, so he definitely hasn’t missed any calls, and JT’s slightly muffled voice doesn’t carry any particular urgency. What’s he doing here? Malcolm bites down on the question in favor of buzzing the detective in and unlatching the door, then he darts back to the living room and hastily scoops Sunshine up from where she’s been nosing around loose puzzle pieces. He pops her into her cage just as JT’s heavy footfalls echo up the stairs and grabs a sweatshirt off the hook, eeling into it in an aim to be slightly more presentable than sporting solely the thin tee he’s been lounging around in.

He doesn’t bother with a mask given that they’ve all been podded up since the worst of the virus, and opens the door as JT’s shadow looms through the glass. His cheery “Hi!” trails into a curious noise as he spots the pizza box in JT’s gloved hand. It’s not from any of the places in a three block radius, he notes, and raises an inquisitive brow, his gaze skimming JT’s eyes for any clues as to what brought him here. “What’s the occasion?”

Snorting derisively, JT pulls off his mask and thrusts the box at Malcolm. “Christmas.”

Malcolm’s brow wings higher and he holds up a hand to decline. “I already ate, but thanks.”

“It’s not a pie, Bright. It’s a present. From my wife.” His mouth twists briefly as his gaze slips past Malcolm to scan the room. “Tally made it special for you.”

“She did? For me?” Now Malcolm takes the box, peeking under the lid to find a ring pastry absolutely dripping with icing. It smells like pure sugar. “Is this a… a kringle?”

“And it's a cherished family recipe, so if you don’t like it, you’d better lie through your teeth when she asks you.”

“I’m sure I’ll like it,” he says, actually fairly certain of it. Grease upsets his stomach, but sweets he can tolerate just fine. When JT stays on his doorstep and doesn’t immediately turn to leave, Malcolm realizes this isn’t simply a delivery. Apprehension sits in the clench of JT’s jaw, his weight poised to leave not as if he’s eager to, but as if he’s worried he’s imposing. Malcolm smiles to himself, usually it's the other way around, with JT making _him_ feel like that. Not that the fear ever truly stops him from inserting himself into the man’s space. 

“Did you want to come in? Maybe share a piece?” Taking a step back, Malcolm motions the box towards the kitchen. “I can make some coffee.”

A bit of tension disappears from JT’s brow. “Yeah, all right, maybe for a few minutes.” He plucks at the fingers of his gloves and peels them off as he crosses the threshold. Crumpling the gloves in one fist, he waves them at the string lights Luisa had fixed the place up with. “Nice decorations. No tree?”

“Allowing my mother to have lights put up was enough.”

“Yeah, all right. That cinches it. Figured you’d be alone on Christmas.”

“Oh?”

“Guy like you doesn’t exactly collect a lot of friends, and your family…” JT’s shrug expresses everything, including the tiniest hint of sheepishness at taking a dig at Malcolm’s expense.

With a self-deprecating chuckle, Malcolm leaves the box on the counter and pulls out the canister of beans, kettle, and French press. There’s a spigot for hot water beside the sink, but maybe it’s echoes of Jackie Arroyo’s kitchen that makes him prefer the ritual of heating the water on the stove. A pang of wistful loss hits him briefly remembering the cards she used to send him and the year her handwriting went from immaculate to a shaky scrawl. That’s another reason he isn’t very fond of Christmas.

He glances over his shoulder as he fills the kettle at the tap. Free of the bulky coat, which JT has left in a pile on the next stool over, a heather grey Henley clings to his broad shoulders. The soft knit pulls tight across his chest and the muscles of his arms. Malcolm silently and subtly appreciates the view.

“What about you? You’re not exactly lacking in either,” he says, dragging his mind from the gutter where it had so swiftly tumbled. It’s not marital trouble that’s landed JT on his doorstep, not with how fondly JT says his wife’s name. So it’s likely to be— “Couldn’t properly isolate because of work so you’re on your own?”

“Yeah.” JT blows out a breath as he slides onto a stool. “Tally’s actually been in Jersey for a month with the baby. She baked this before she left along with instructions to give it to you. I forgot to take it out of the freezer in time to get it to you at work the other day though, so figured, you know, if you weren’t busy today…”

“Very thoughtful of her, and of you. Must be hard not being with your family right now.”

“I dunno, the in-laws stress me out.” Slouching forward, JT folds his arms on the counter. His thumb taps a random beat against the marble. “Honestly, I don’t much like this time of year.”

“Oh?”

“We were a military family,” JT explains, his gaze tracking the pastry as Malcolm carefully slides it out of the box and onto a cutting board, “and my dad was overseas more years than not.” He pauses, seeming to struggle to find the right words. “You know you watch those movies as a kid where the dad somehow manages to come home on Christmas Day? Well, that kind of thing never happened for me and my brother. Wanting to start a family of my own one day is part of why I left the service.”

Malcolm pulls a knife from the block and offers it handle-first to JT to let him do the honors. “I’m the opposite. The holidays as a kid were picture perfect, but after? All I can think about is which of the Surgeon’s victims were suffering while Ainsley and I were helping our father put out cookies for Santa.” He leans against the counter as JT cuts a few generous slices with a far steadier hand than his own. Precise and effortless, Malcolm suspects he must do a fair amount around the kitchen himself. “This year might be a wash, but you’ll be able to make some new traditions for your own family next Christmas. So long as you don’t kill a bunch of people in ten years and go down for murder, I’m fairly certain your kid will have plenty of fond memories to last a lifetime.”

JT’s side-eye is as sharp as the knife’s blade. “You know you suck at pep talks.”

“No friends, remember?”

Dubious expression crumbling into unabashed amusement, JT dips his head. “Touché.” 

Malcolm grins as he pulls down a pair of dishes and starts the coffee brewing. It had taken him a while to recognize when JT’s teasing had become a marker of fondness, but he’d since learned to give as good as he got. Plating the slices, Malcolm moves the box and his row of pill bottles out of the way, sliding the French press in to make for a tidy little scene. He glances up to catch JT’s bewildered look at his effort. “Tally’s going to want a photo, isn’t she?”

“It’s this sort of thing, Bright,“ JT takes out his phone and swipes open the camera, slinging a wry look at Malcolm before he aims the shot, “that makes my wife swoon and say stuff like she wishes she’d married you instead.”

Licking suddenly dry lips, Malcolm nudges the coffee further into frame, then snags a sprig of holly from the vase near the sink and lays it in the background. He’d played pool with her and JT a few memorable times before Tally got too pregnant and the virus hit, and he knew she was _very_ attracted to him, but he’s never spent much time thinking about what they’d say about him when he wasn’t around. “She says that?” A faint tingle washes over Malcolm’s skin at the way JT’s gaze skips back to him and lingers just a touch too long on his mouth.

JT snorts a quiet, “Oh, yeah,” snaps a couple more angles, and gestures at the spread, “You think she’d bake this for just anyone?” Another weighted glance and an _Or, that I’d bring it to just anyone,_ writes itself in the sly arch of JT’s brow.

Malcolm’s mind turns to static. God. Was it not solely Tally sneaking salacious looks at the seat of his pants while he was lining up a shot? If JT was queer in the military and adept at hiding it or only occasionally attracted to men, Malcolm could have easily missed the signs. He’d thought all those knowing glances when Tally was practically eating him alive with her eyes were simply JT indulging the woman he loved, but maybe they’d been more than that.

Once JT snaps a decent picture, Malcolm divvies up the forks and aims for as casual as possible while lifting up his cup and murmuring, “So, what else does Tally say about me when I’m not around?”

Pointing a pastry-laden fork at Malcolm, JT smirks. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” With a flash of pink tongue, he licks a bit of icing off the side of gleaming silver tines before taking the bite.

Heat rising under his collar, Malcolm’s pulse speeds as he slices his own fork through layers of flaky pastry. Is he being flirted with right now?

Sucking the bite off his fork and savoring it, he narrows his gaze and prepares to ask what it would take to get JT to divulge that sort of information. But even if JT’s willing to play a little cat and mouse, there’s an easier and more efficient route to an answer.

“Selfie?” Malcolm aims a pointed glance at JT’s phone and then motions between the two of them as the man opens his mouth wide in preparation of another bite. “The before shot is for Instagram. This one would be for her. I’m sure she’d love to see us enjoying her hard work.”

JT picks up his phone again, and Malcolm deftly plucks it out of his grip the moment it unlocks. “Here, let me.” He activates the camera and spins around to snap a quick photo of JT looming behind him with a forkful of pastry and a dubious look on his face. A look that deepens when Malcolm retreats towards the corner of the kitchen tapping out a message instead of handing his phone back.

“Are you texting my wife, Bright?”

“Yes, but I’m signing my name so she knows it’s coming from me.”

_The kringle is delicious, Tally. Thank you very much! JT tells me sometimes you say you wish I were your husband and I feel like there’s more to that, so I have something I need to ask. —Malcolm_

_yw! ask away, hun._

_I don’t want to ruin your holiday, so the answer to this can, of course, be an emphatic no, but is it okay with you if I flirt with your husband? I don’t want this to get awkward, but when we last played pool, you did say a few things that looking back could be interpreted as matchmaking. —MB_

A little typing bubble pops up and disappears more than once before the phone in his hand starts to ring.

“Bright, what are you—”

He holds up a hand and answers. “Tally, hi, I uh—”

“Malcolm, please put JT on the line.”

Stomach knotting up immediately, Malcolm passes the phone over, his face scrunching into an apologetic grimace. JT heads for the door as he takes the call, expression slipping into seriousness as he ducks into the stairwell for a bit of privacy.

Shit. _Shit_. Did he just fuck up and cross a line? Sometimes, as much as he hates it, he really ought to listen to that little voice in the back of his head that says to think twice before jumping in with both feet. He pushes around the pastry on his plate, licking up the occasional crumb as he tries not to stretch his ears to pick out words from the low murmur of sound drifting through the door. The gnawing dread in his stomach only worsens the longer JT stays in the hall, and eventually he can’t even look at the sugar-drenched pastry remaining on his plate.

When JT steps back inside, he at least isn’t scowling or looking like he’s ready to grab his coat and go.

“Everything okay?” Malcolm ventures hesitantly.

“Just peachy.”

JT doesn’t retake his seat and Malcolm swallows thickly. “How peachy?”

Looking down his nose at Malcolm, JT purposefully sets his phone down on the countertop. The plastic of the case snaps against the stone with a crack like breaking bone. JT flicks a fingernail against the beveled edge, pointing with his chin at the darkened screen. “So, you want to flirt with me, Bright?”

The nervous unease eating Malcolm from the inside out blossoms into gooseflesh along his arms. “JT, I–”

“No bullshit, just answer the question.”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

“I bring you a dessert that my wife baked for you and somehow that translates in your head as an invitation for a threesome?”

Malcolm makes a fist and releases it, trying to will his tension to ease along with it as he reassesses the situation. There’s no aggression in JT’s posture. Nothing at all to suggest he’s angered by the situation or the call with Tally. The sensation pulling Malcolm’s skin taut warps to send a distinctly different electric charge along his nervous system as he gauges the look in JT’s eye. This isn’t JT’s _‘that’s some seriously fucked up shit’_ tone of voice, this is his _‘bet you I can sink that one in the side pocket’_ delivery.

“Flirting isn’t analogous to sex, and technically it wouldn’t be a threesome because Tally isn’t here, but if that was _‘The Call’_ and all parties are amenable.” He shrugs a shoulder and dares to scoop a fingerful of the icing oozing across his plate. A motion JT keenly tracks as he lifts the confection towards his mouth. The higher his finger raises, the more the knot in his stomach unravels until there’s only a giddy swoop left in his belly. He dares to flash a smile. “We could also skip the flirting.”

“And what? You want me to fuck you right here? Right in front of my wife’s kringle?”

Malcolm blinks, mouth parted and hand frozen in front of him as he tries to parse everything JT’s just said. So, most definitely The Call and the look sweeping along his frame is _highly interested,_ but that was— “Is that a… meme?”

“Is that a… no?” JT retorts. He hooks his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans, fingers framing his zip.

“It is absolutely not a no,” Malcolm assures, taking the subtle invitation to glance at JT’s package. He licks the icing off his finger with a lot less sultry aplomb than originally intended, but it had begun melting towards his knuckles, and, by the hitch in JT’s breath, the hasty swipe to catch it sliding down his finger works just as well. He clears his throat, hardly believing he’s actually speaking aloud a thought he’s had more than once since they first met: “JT Tarmel, if you want to fuck me, you can do it anywhere you want.”

A low breathy laugh is not the reaction he’d hoped for. Less so, JT retaking the stool and his fork and digging in to finish his dessert. “You and the boss need to spend a little more time on the internet,” he says between mouthfuls. “How do you even function in this day and age?”

“Being up on the latest internet jokes doesn’t help solve a murder any faster.”

“So, what, your only hobbies are murder-related?”

“Most of them,” Malcolm admits, recognizing that it sounds far more morbid than it ought to. “That’s not to say I don’t have other interests. I um—” He looks towards the living room, attention going immediately to his weapons collection before dropping to the chess board and the half-finished puzzle. “I also enjoy non-murder related puzzles.”

“Tally, too.”

“Really?” Malcolm perks up. “Well, if you think she’d like it, she can have this one when I’m done with it.”

“Maybe once restrictions loosen up again you can join us for a game night,” JT suggests. He pushes away his empty plate in exchange for the cup of coffee and takes a slow sip. His thumb swipes rhythmically over the curve of the cup in a way that suggests sex isn’t off the table. “Don’t think we’ll be back at the pool hall anytime soon.

Malcolm _had_ asked permission to flirt, and if that’s how JT wants to play this… he bites his lip as he smiles and scoops up another fingerful of icing. “I’d love to join the two of you. I did a lot of that in college.”

“I bet you did.”

“Board game nights,” Malcolm clarifies before sucking the icing off his finger, then adding, with a slight roll of his eyes, “Okay, threesomes, too.”

JT chuckles and they fall into a wandering conversation that’s part heavy innuendo and part feeling each other out as to where this might go. Eventually they move to the living room, carrying the conversation about games into poking at the unfinished puzzle. JT sits cross-legged on the floor, pulling the box into his lap to pick through the pieces while Malcolm perches on the edge of the couch, keenly aware of just how much distance there is between his foot and JT’s leg. Each time JT hands him a piece to try, sparks pass between their fingers, and as soon as Malcolm snaps in the piece that assembles the cozy cabin in the corner, JT cries victory and pats him on the calf.

The touch sends a shockwave up Malcolm’s leg, a visible jolt that ends with his breath cut short and his lips parting. JT pretends like he hadn’t noticed, idly commenting that they ought to start on the shadows in the snow, but even as he digs through the pieces in the box, his left hand comes back to trail along Malcolm’s leg.

Toes curling into the carpet and all the blood in his body rushing to his cock, Malcolm keeps it together for a good twenty minutes of JT making idle patterns on his calf, but when JT’s fingers dip into the sensitive hollow bend of his knee he stares uselessly at the next piece handed his way. It’s a unique color pattern, probably very easy to place, but the spread of the puzzle blurs into nonsense shapes. Only the light drift of fingertips stroking along the soft fabric of his yoga pants remains in focus. The rhythm of his breath turns choppy as he makes a few attempts to fit the piece into the picture. Each time he tries, JT’s touch wanders purely to disrupt him.

“I’m never going to figure out where this goes,” Malcolm admits, words hardly more than a rasping whisper as JT teases the curve of his ankle. His heart skips when JT’s thumb sneaks under the hem of his pants to brush over the fine hairs at his shin.

Slowly, as his hand drifts higher under the loose leg of Malcolm’s thin sweatpants, JT sets the box aside and Malcolm instantly sees that he’s not the only one whose cock is hard. “Well, what about this?” JT asks, hand slipping down to curve over the thick outline trapped against his thigh.

Another full-body shiver wracks Malcolm and he wets his lips. “I can think of a few places where that can go.”

Gaze locked on his, JT thumbs open his jeans one-handed, undoing the zip and shifting enough to pull his cock free. Malcolm’s mouth immediately floods wet at the sight and he doesn’t need the light tug of encouragement at his pantleg to draw him to the floor. But JT stops him before he can sink down and take that gorgeous cock into his mouth. Instead, Malcolm finds himself pulled straight into JT’s lap.

His lips part on a breathy exhale as JT’s hand fits perfectly under his jaw, tips his face to waste no time in taking his mouth in a devouring kiss. The lingering bitterness of coffee echoes between them as the tongue pushing into his mouth draws a moan from deep in his belly. He licks against the thrust that sweeps against his palate and winds along the curve of his own searching tongue, a delicious tingle creeping up his spine as JT’s arms wrap around him.

God, he hasn’t been kissed like this in a very long time.

JT kisses him and takes light nibbling bites at his lip for what feels like hours, not seeming to get tired of the way their mouths move together. A low hum resonates in JT’s chest as he curls a lick against the line of Malcolm’s teeth before sucking on his bottom lip until it’s left full and stinging. He does it again and again, head twisting to find another angle to taste before swiping a lick, and then sucking hard. Twist, lick, suck. Twist, lick, suck. Until Malcolm can’t keep still from the desire to be touched and his lips feel bruised as if he’d been giving an enthusiastic blow job this whole time. But while that he could do for hours without complaint, he needs something _more._

Thighs clamping desperately to JT’s waist, Malcolm breaks for air, leaning back as he drags in a lungful. With a groan he reaches between them to squeeze the insistent throb of his cock and try to get the edge off. “This is nice—amazing, even—but I really need you to fuck me,” he says, prying his hand off his cock before he can give it a proper stroke. If he does, he won’t want to stop. Besides, his knuckles have found the hot skin of JT’s dick and that’s a whole lot more interesting. He twists his hand to get a feel for it, palm curling around the length, and shivers with delight as he imagines it stretching him open and sliding inside him. “I hope Tally’s okay with that.”

“She’s down,” JT says, then leans in to kiss him again. He melts into it, back arching like a cat as JT’s hand skids along his spine and pushes under the waist of his pants, fingers sliding into the hot cleft of his ass. Muscle flutters as JT’s questing fingers rub dry and cool against his hole. “She’s probably been thinking about me rawing your tight little ass since she hung up the phone.”

Malcolm groans, his legs spreading wider as JT’s fingers massage his rim. “God, that’s hot.” He licks at the corner of his mouth, picturing it too, mind going a little hazy at the idea of actually being in bed with the two of them at the same time.

“You have something around here to slick up or do you want a spit fuck?”

Enjoying the drag of JT’s fingers for a moment longer, Malcolm hauls himself to his feet to fetch some lube from his bedside. “Any allergies?”

An easy shrug, a pat on the ass, and a dry, “Let’s hope not,” ushers Malcolm on his way. JT’s gaze follows him as he crosses the apartment, and the sensation of being watched speeds the edge of the wildfire blaze skittering along his limbs as he strips down to his boxer briefs. 

Retrieving a bottle from the drawer, he lingers where he is, returning the favor with hungry eyes as JT pulls his shirt off overhead and shifts to take a seat up on the couch. Changing his mind at the last moment, Malcolm leaves his underwear with the rest of his clothes and pads silently across the loft. The air cools the fevered flush on his naked skin and he scoops up a fresh fingerful of icing as he passes through the kitchen. 

He’s about to suck it off his finger when he thinks better of it. He smears most of it on his lips instead like a thick gloss, sugar exploding on his tongue and cock surging as he licks the pad of his finger clean.

“Here,” he says, passing the bottle to JT before he straddles the man’s lap and dives right back into kissing him. The slide of their lips goes from sticky sweet to slippery in seconds, and as JT’s fingers work into him with the same wet, easy glide, Malcolm chases the taste of the icing smeared between them. His tongue sweeps over the rasp of five o’clock shadow on JT’s upper lip, dips in to find the hard line of his teeth, and when JT’s fingers slip out of him and the heat of a cock slaps against his ass, he moans and rises high on his knees.

“You ready?” JT asks, his hands framing Malcolm’s waist.

Belly quivering with excitement and kiss-swollen lips tingling, he’s never been more ready.

Malcolm answers by sinking down, hips tilting so that JT’s cock drags over his hole, softer than the press of his fingers had been. Another rocking grind and the head catches at his rim, a grin spreading Malcolm’s mouth wide as he reaches down to help push it in, body aching for the briefest moment before swallowing JT up.

“Fuck, you’re tight.”

“Yeah, just… give me a moment,” Malcolm gasps, hips moving fitfully as he adjusts to the stretch. If it’s been a while since he’s been on the receiving end of a devouring kiss, it’s been even longer for this.

“However long you need, Bright,” JT soothes, broad hands turned to wandering along Malcolm’s sides. Ripples of pleasure follow in the wake of his touch, the heavy calluses at the base of each finger scraping across Malcolm’s skin like blunt nails. Being with someone so much taller and larger than him is always a thrill, sometimes carrying a dark edge of fear even when he’s not crushed under their weight, and sometimes the opposite, feeling overwhelmingly safe no matter how powerful his partner’s grip.

He eases up quickly enough, working his hips until he’s settled fully in JT’s lap, the whole of that beautiful cock tucked up inside him like they were made to fit together, the curve of it pressing in all the right places. “God, you feel good.” Malcolm groans, clutching his muscles tight purely for the pleasure of the answering squeeze that JT digs into his sides. 

JT’s mouth finds his throat, echoes the sentiment between lipping kisses, and then they’re moving together, the circle of JT’s arms wrapped around him guiding him into a rolling rhythm. He clings to the back of the couch with one hand for leverage, the other fisted at his cock. His world narrows down to the connection of flesh, the hot slide of JT sheathed inside him and the drag of his cock in the spit-wet tunnel of his hand.

It’s everything he’d dreamed it could be, and when the curl of his tongue against his upper lip catches the leftover crystalline crunch of dried icing, he grinds his hips down harder, desperately chasing the promise of orgasm. He wants to come for JT, to show the man how good it feels. How thankful he is for the gift of this moment. How the roll of their bodies together and the thumb sweeping near the tender scar on his abdomen will give him something so much better to remember Christmas Day for in the future.

JT throws an elbow over the back of the couch and works to meet him, hips lifting away from the cushions to slap against him and drive the breath from his lungs. Eventually, Malcolm stills and holds trembling in place, lets JT fuck into him at the pace he wants and it’s good. It’s so good. The string lights hung along the windows blur and dim as his eyes grow heavy, the pleasure buzzing inside him instead, saturating his skin until every nerve in his body crackles electric. His hand on his cock slows, or maybe time does, the moment stretching infinite as he slides his cheek along JT’s, lips shivering near a kiss when the next thrust takes him over the edge and he’s spilling hot between them.

Sinking back into the cushions, JT gathers Malcolm into his arms again, coaxes him back to moving with a few low words kissed into his skin. Malcolm falls easily into the slow grind JT encourages, tipping back as his core does all the work and watching through half-lidded eyes for the moment when JT’s mouth drops open and the hard throb of his cock fills Malcolm with his come.

If only he could’ve taken a picture of _that_ for Tally.

Lazily rubbing the mess spread wet between them into his skin, Malcolm releases a gusty sigh. “Time to revise my rankings for best to worst Christmas memories.”

“Gotta be better than last year,” JT remarks, tracing Malcolm’s scar again with gentle fingers.

“Oh, definitely. At least by half a point.” Malcolm grins and loops his arms around JT’s neck, toying idly at the prickling hairs of his fade. He chuckles quietly to himself as he shifts, easing JT’s cock out of him but staying seated in the man’s lap. “And who knew my mother’s Christmas wish would come true.”

“If you tell me your mom wanted you to get dicked, that’s fucked up. Even for your family.”

“Funny.” Malcolm breathes out another sigh and drapes himself contentedly against JT’s chest, burrowing his face against his neck. “She didn’t want me to be alone on Christmas.”

“How about the day after?”

“Are you asking to stay the night?”

“Someone needs to help you finish that kringle and Tally didn’t leave _me_ one.”

“That would be nice,” Malcolm admits, a new, warmer glow settling into the space behind his ribs. He snuggles closer. “I could also use some help finishing that puzzle. I’m pretty sure in the middle of everything I kicked more than half of it onto the floor.”


End file.
